


Adult Swim

by KittyViolet



Series: More than 41 hours [1]
Category: New Mutants, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Technology, F/F, Magic, Outdoor Sex, Pantsing, Swimming, Swimming Pools, Tail Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 00:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18927865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Summary: Time spent-- not wasted-- at the hotel pool.





	Adult Swim

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [41 Hours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16982487) by [Magik3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magik3/pseuds/Magik3). 



> This one takes place after chapter 3 of "41 Hours," by Magik3, though you don't *need* to read that fic before you read this one (I do recommend it though!). In canon, like "41 Hours," it's set during All-New X-Men (2013) #18.

You can go to New Orleans and stay in a beautiful filigree gingerbread guest house, where the proprietor brings you beignets, or (better yet) leaves them out on a sideboard till noon, along with a pitcher of chilled chicory coffee. You can do that. We did, for a night. It was great. (I don’t think I’ll ever eat more beignets.) 

For some reason that whole guest house, in Irish Channel, by far the fanciest on the block, was done up in varying shades of rose and magenta, and the kind proprietor (the kind who’ll stay out of your way once you’re settled in) had bright red eyes. When we checked in our room had only one electronic surveillance device. Now, of course, it has none. Low ceilings make short work. We slept well.

You know what guest houses don’t normally have, though? Swimming pools. And if they do, the pools have no privacy. (The Jean Grey School also had a pool but no privacy. Utopia had the Pacific Ocean. It was cold.)

Today we check into the Osborne. Part of a chain, but a luxury chain, with a swimming pool on the top floor, under glass to catch sunlight, with ventilation so it wouldn’t turn into a sauna (unless somebody cast a spell). We wait till Ilya’s wards signal that all the families with kids were out of the pool, and then we return to our room, and change, and ride the glass elevator up the outside of the hotel to the pool, and Ilya snaps her fingers and the remaining bathers, all of them adults, decide they have somewhere better to be.

And do we simply plunge in and swim laps, because swimming is clean, wholesome exercise? Reader, we do not.

I do just kind of plunge in, though. Swimming’s like dancing. It’s movement, it’s not combat, and it’s not something I’m very good at: it’s something I’m normal at. I like the feel of water along my shoulders and on my calves and in my hair. I like zooming down through the bubbles and coming up. I like the feel of having something around me, something with give, something that welcomes life. God, I hadn’t had a minute in a swimming pool—not a bath or a shower or a training exercise in San Francisco Bay; an actual swimming pool, designed for humans to frolic and splash and backstroke-- since I came back from space. What else had I missed?

I know who I missed. Not only her. She knows that now. But definitely her.

She’s reading Russian poetry on a chaise longue, possibly waiting for me to decide what to do. She’s in a white one-piece that shows off her shoulders (the weight of the world has been on them; what a relief to know it’s not, right now, in our time-looped holiday). She’s holding that book above her face, reclining, I’m in a blue-and-gold two-piece, my hair as curly as it ever gets, and as wet.

I swim up close enough to look at the book, make sure it’s a paperback, very replaceable.

Then I splash her, and splash her, and splash her. On her toes, on her knees, on her thighs, on her belly (under the one-piece), on her book, over her book, on her arms, in her face.

She says something in Russian, and then, in English, “You’re lucky this isn’t a great book,” and then she dives in.

And then we… just swim for a bit. Not like exercise, not like athletes, more like little kids can. We just circle the pool like big fish and try to tug each other underwater and pretend to succeed, then pretend to break free. It’s almost shockingly refreshing, especially with the pool at this temperature: almost warm enough to feel like a warm bath, and brisk enough to keep us moving.

“Are we private?” I ask.

“How much privacy do you want?” Ilya counters.

“This much,” and I spread my arms 180 degrees.

She moves her right hand in the air, and then her left, and the swimming pool tiles glow green for an instance, before returning to their usual sourdough-white. “I gave us an hour.”

“Without teleporting?” I ask.

“I just cast a boredom. The pool seems boring to anyone who’s not already in it. They’ll just decide to do something else.”

“So nobody’s going to surprise us?” I ask quickly. She nods.

“Yaybo!”

I plunge under the surface of the pool and phase through the pool hose tangled on the pool bottom. Then I rise, gently, slowly, beside her in the water, and materialize, and rub her back, and take the edge of her swimsuit collar between my thumb and fingers, and phase the swimsuit away along with me, and dive, still phased, back down into the water.

I come back up out of the solid concrete under the patio, by her chaise longue, still holding her stolen swimsuit, and then I materialize. I had never been able to phase someone’s clothes off before without their noticing. Another mutant with the same power set could create untold mischief. I just want to make my girlfriend smile.

She smiles. And then— still in the pool, while I’m out of it—she splashes me as hard as she can. 

I dive back into the water, without a plan. She dives fast and far under the water, trying to get below me, maybe to tug my own suit off, since that’s where we are right now in aquatic flirting. She tries for my suit and gets a handful of my butt instead. 

If you’re going to have somebody grab your butt from behind while you’re swimming and try to pull you down, make sure it’s someone you want to trust absolutely, and someone whose skin feels really good next to yours, whether it’s underwater or in crisp linen or on a chaise longue, in the sun, protected by spellwork.

I decide to take her back to the chaise longue. I pivot underwater so that Ilya’s hands slide off my butt, and take her hand instead, so that for a moment we are holding hands underwater like performing mermaids in Florida, and then I kick hard with both my legs, propelling us forward and up from the bottom of the pool so that in another moment we will both hit the concrete wall of the pool. And then I phase us both through the concrete, diagonally, upwards, letting inertia propel us through solid matter till we’re in the air again.

We settle, not on the chaise, but on stacks of towels. Plush, deep, thick, canary yellow towels, like the yellow on our old uniforms. I lay back on the towels, still in my two-piece, closing my eyes for a moment to feel the warm sun through the glass.

Illyana, still naked, keeps her back to me. Her straight hair, dripping. leaves shiny parabolas on the towels and tile. “Did you just pants me, roomie?” she says. No one has called me roomie for years. I missed the nickname so.

I make panting sounds, hoping she’d like the pun. She doesn’t respond for a moment—she’s fiddling with something in her backpack—and then she turns her body around, still on the towels, to make an odalisque. 

I see all of her, and she is even more magnificent—because more self-confident—than my memories of her could say. To look in her eyes is to see all the dangers in the universe, averted, kept away from us by her force of will as long as we’re together. (Force of will and planning and teamwork and a magic sword, really. But still.) To look at her hips, and between her hips…

There’s something there that wasn’t there before. It’s metallic and shifts a bit. 

I guess she was packing. Her wide smile becomes a mock-wicked smile. She opens her legs. The something expands, shines less, glows more.

“You can touch it,” she says. “If you want to touch it. I…. might have tested it out for you.”

I want very much to touch it, right away.

Our bodies roll together on top of the towels, then separate enough to let me tickle, touch, get my open palm on the supple piece of technology that’s augmenting her body. She likes it there. She loves it there. It’s growing and getting denser on my hand…. I brush the top of the technology with my fingertips, then press on it hard, start to press in a rhythm. I press down with the base of my palm while stroking the tip.

Illyana says something in Russian, then something in English, then something that might be the same in all the world’s languages. Whatever the special technology is, it’s shaped so that part of it fits extremely well. And it’s moving, slowly, to cover more of the space between her thighs, even as the tip gets firmer in my hand. (Would I want to wear one of these things myself, sometime? Maybe. Not yet.) I’m almost part of it. The technology responds to her skin, and to mine. It's like the soulsword, part of her but not. But also not like a sword at all. The more it emerges, the happier, the safer, she must feel.

I’ve been propping myself on my left elbow, working her….technology with my right hand. But I want to kiss her at least a little. I do kiss her, and then I move my shoulders so I can lie back into a towel, my left hand on her left breast, my right hand on her…. technology, and then I’m sucked into whatever emotions her magic packer amplifies. I’m still in my wet swimsuit and I want it off me. But there’s no time for that. Her body needs me first.

Any sufficiently advanced technology, I think to myself, is indistinguishable from Magik. And then I can’t think in words any more, except for the words she’s saying to me. “Higher, faster,” she says, as if quoting something, and then, after I move down, “farther. Up, go up. Stay up!” I stay up. 

We kiss again and we stop kissing and her packer is a supersonic airplane, is a hot, soft shiny bird still spreading its wings, is the tip of the soulsword made warm and friendly and everything and anything she wants it to be, her soul can hold pleasure and share it, we’re out here in the open air on a stack of hotel towels where everybody can see us except that nobody does, because she made sure we were very boring—

now the magic packer isn’t an airplane, it’s more like a volcano, with my hand around it I feel like I’m coming out of it myself when it erupts, I am liquid, she’s solid, I am part of her pleasure, everything explodes, and it’s harmless, it’s safe. We are the universe together. We are a puddle in the sun by the pool. We are a shiny glider, together, landing. We have this time to ourselves. We will have more.

I close my eyes in the sun. Maybe she closes hers. When I open them again she’s... still naked, but there’s no technology: just her. Either it folds itself away when not called for, or she put it back in her bag. I’d love to see it again.

I am very wet myself, in all the ways a girl can be wet. But I can wait, if I have to wait.

I say “Are we still boring? How long until we get interesting again?”

“Twenty minutes or so,” she says. 

I pant again, trying to make it a running joke. Then I realize she’s pulling off the bottom of my swimsuit, very slowly, using the remaining water around the small of my back and on my butt-cheeks almost as if it were lubrication. But I can see both her hands on her belly.

Her tail. She’s doing it with her tail. I can see the tail now.

I like the way her tail curves out from her body, the way it matches the rest of her curves

I lie back, lazily, in the sunlight, and let her. Tonight if not earlier I’ll be ready to wrap that tail around myself. Or let her do it. Maybe I'll want her inside me, or almost inside me. If anyone else wants us I’ll say we’re both still tied up.

For now, though, I just want to touch and cuddle and enjoy the sunlight, and the proximity to the peaceful water, and the feeling that she's satisfied. And the prank. When somebody pranks you back it's a sign that the initial prank was right.

I wait for Illyana to drop my bathing suit bottoms into the swimming pool with her tail. It’s that long, when she wants it to be; she just uncoils it over the water and lets the bikini brief go. She doesn’t even move from her position on her back, across the big towels. Then, when she brings her tail back, I reach out and stroke that triangular tip.. She didn’t manifest her tail at all when we were swimming; it’s new. The tip should be dry.

I’m not surprised to find that it’s already wet.


End file.
